Overcast, gray, brooding. A slight breeze carries the stench of decay, playing with the tendrils of her hair. As she walks gently, barefoot among the decaying corpses, the bloated fingers of the fallen snag the ragged hem of her chemise. Is she dismayed by the death and carnage around her? Not at all. This is her domain; the putrid visage her Glory. As she sidesteps a gray, rotting foot, her chemise strap falls from her shoulder – and she smiles wickedly as she delicately slips her foot into a congealed pool of blood – sighing as if it were an old comfortable slipper. And darkness begins to settle further, so she sits down, giggles as she smooths the hair of an unfortunately decapitated soldier. And the feasting ravens laugh.
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